


In the Quiet of the Night

by OrphanText



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrphanText/pseuds/OrphanText
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With all his heart, if that meant anything at all, Douglas loved Martin, despite his three failed marriages. And he had tried, although when he finally finds out that Martin doesn't want him the way he does him, he isn't all that surprised. He is, after all, a fired Captain, a failed husband, and above all, an old man which time hadn't been particularly kind to...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> This is really not as angsty as it sounds, /though/ I can make it so but let's not.
> 
> Based on the prompt from dreamwidth: [ One thing that annoys Douglas when he's with Martin, Martin makes no sounds when they're having sex. Douglas likes noise, he likes hearing his partners gasp and moan. But Martin is so fucking quiet.
> 
> "I live in a house full of students. I have no choice but to be quiet."
> 
> Cue Douglas trying his hardest to get Martin to respond. ]
> 
> Un-betaed. Though Tiwtin did help with some of the plot bits that I haven't gotten around to yet. Tiwtin where are you ; u ;
> 
> [[ Unrelated point: I don't know why I can't seem to buy any Diamine or De Atramentis inks in my country if anyone uses a fountain pen / etc please help me I think I'm obsessed. ]]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta'ed by the lovely Linguini.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are mine.

He is at his wit's end.

It’s not a very Douglas Richardson thing to think, or to say, but Douglas admits that he is well and truly beaten. This, on a lazy Sunday, with no flights scheduled and the smell of coffee wafting in the air while his lover cooks breakfast in the kitchen, is not the most pleasant thought to have at the eight in the morning.

He blames it all on the freckly ginger currently puttering around in his kitchen.

Not that Martin is aware of his current dilemma. Heavens help him should he be, but so long as his Captain is humming one of those disgustingly cheery tunes fit for Snow White, Douglas is safe to brood for a little while longer.

Watching Martin scrambling eggs, Douglas really doesn't know what is worse: that Martin never speaks a word of it, or that he pretends as though last night was fine. Douglas shifts, wrapping his hands more firmly around the warm mug of coffee, and resists the urge to sigh. Martin seems his usual self. Cheerful, even, judging from the way he attempts to flip the pan, only to realize that scrambled eggs will hardly let themselves be flipped. Looking embarrassed, he slides the eggs onto the plate with the waiting bacon and tomatoes, and carries the plates to the table.

"Breakfast's ready," he calls, wiping hands on the apron that he’s borrowed from Douglas, and cleaning the cooker quickly.  He knows that Douglas hates for his kitchen to be stained anywhere.

This time, Douglas does sigh and picks himself up, although the simple move seems to take more energy than normal, sitting down in the chair across from his lover, who is already buttering his toast.

Douglas’s appetite has deserted him entirely, leaving only a tight, uncomfortable sensation in his belly as he watches Martin take bite after bite of his own breakfast. He looks down at his own plate woefully, and takes in the paunch pressing against the table. He certainly does not forget the sight in the mirror that greeted him at a sleepless 6 am under the harsh fluorescent light. He isn’t getting any younger, and it makes him wonder what exactly Martin sees in him.

The hair dye and shampoo in his bathroom aren’t exactly secrets anymore, and neither is the wrinkle cream. His age clearly shows, more so when he’s right next to Martin, the epitome of youth, vigor, and energy. How can Martin bear to look at him, when the man could have picked anyone?  Someone younger, someone... less aged. Or perhaps, Douglas swallows at the horrible thought; Martin is only with him because there is no other option available to him.

Martin seems to have noticed his forlorn perusal of the breakfast fare, and stops, fork scraping slightly against the plate. "Is something wrong? Is there something else you want to eat?" he asks nervously.  There’s no reason for him to feel that way; his cooking skills are more than competent after the lessons Douglas has been putting him through. Initially, Martin’s cooking had been so bad Douglas had refused to touch anything he cooked except the potatoes.

Douglas looks up, and searches Martin's face before shaking his head. "No, it's fine," he says, stabbing his eggs with the fork rather viciously.  Martin seems to have something more to say, but swallows his words with a rather large gulp of coffee. Douglas is glad—he’d rather not know if Martin was about to tell him that he’s tired of him.

It always starts slowly, he knows--the decay slowly settling in, eating deep into pristine bone before one knows it. And then, they always leave for something fresher, something younger, and more... dare he say glamourous? It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

Douglas pushes the thought away and takes a bite of the eggs.

Martin has over-salted them again.


	2. Nothing is fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which hearts will be broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Beta-ed by Linguini, the amazing spaghetti.
> 
> Still unbetaed. If anyone spots anything that is like /this/, its supposed to be italics, but I haven't got the time to skim it through yet, perhaps later.

Once, in a lifetime before this one (and he did see working with MJN as an entirely almost implausible new life), the only thing that Douglas would consider Martin to be was another notch on his bedpost, a solution to an itch that needed scratching. While harmless and adventurous fun for him, their relationship would have simply proven that not even his uptight captain was able to resist his charms, if Douglas worked at it. He would have treated it as something to pass his time in between the flying, the smuggling, and the silence that haunted his flat. But that was a lifetime ago, he isn’t that Douglas anymore, and Martin isn't just a love conquest.

They've been together for half a year, now. Eight months, if you count the ridiculous skirting around each other before it was made official, which was mostly in thanks to the captain's ridiculous obliviousness, or an active choice on his part to not see what was clearly right before him. The skittishness lasted for a month before he finally settled down firmly into their new relationship in exactly the same way Carolyn would describe him landing her plane--slammed on the tarmac with parts to spare.

Life with Martin is, frankly, quite a mess. While his own desk and locker is kept extremely neat with not a sock out of place, apparently when faced with a space far too large that he can call his own, he is at a loss of what to do.  He has a habit of leaving everything haphazardly stacked and piled high on a cabinet that he had likes too much to have given up in the move to Douglas' flat. It reminds Douglas of the same way he tucks himself into the corners and sides of everything, as though trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It takes two weeks until Martin feels comfortable enough to be in the middle of any room, and then yet another for him to use and do things without telling Douglas beforehand, with the noticeable exception of the coffee machine.

And then, once they are well and truly settled domestically, things start to mellow out.

The passion is, never truly there to begin with. Oh, there are the shy kisses stolen on the way to work, in the middle of cooking, and when either one of them is sleeping. The good natured ribbing that comes to them as easily as breathing, and murmured sentiments, often dropped in suddenly in a conversation from Martin, and whispered in the darkness of the bedroom from Douglas. They hug, and Douglas had long figured out that Martin was a cuddler, which is all good and well.  Anything beyond that, if he felt the need to advance things to the bedroom, had to be initiated by Douglas.

That isn’t entirely fair, though.

There are a few times, far and sparse in between when Martin is the one to initiate it. And oh, does he find out that Martin Crieff, when given enough motivation, is quite the little minx, enthusiastic and impatient in shucking clothes off the bed, and eager to get right down to business. That enthusiasm, it seems, only lasts long enough for Douglas to get his clothes off and both of them onto the bed.

In the beginning, Douglas doesn’t mind. Perhaps Martin is shy, or inexperienced, given his scope of old lovers. Months down the road, he finally stops trying what should be pleasurable for both of them, but now only feels like a chore.

When a man is in his fifties (early fifties granted), with three divorces in a row; when he realizes that he prefers the comfort of home on his couch with some telly to a bar with loud music and other people, it’s time to admit that it’s no longer his game. He knows what he is--old, tiring, at the end of his rope. Goodness knows what other people see.

There’s no question he loves Martin. He really does, with all of his heart, if he would care to admit that to anyone., While it’s one thing to know these truths about himself, it’s something else to see them in his lover's face, to read it in his expression and stony silence.  To know that Douglas is just something for Martin to hold on to until a better one flies in.

Sure, he’s never said anything of the sort before. Martin is happy to share meals with him, and hold conversations with him, and generally live together, but sex? Anything more intimate, more close, when Douglas' age is more apparent and real? No.

And Douglas wishes that, for once, he just isn’t so observant. He’d like to to not notice the stiff way Martin holds himself beneath him, never meeting his eyes, and never speaking. Sure, Martin comes. They both do, which is saying something for his sexual prowess at his age, but it’s obvious that Martin is enjoying the act as something only perfunctory, simply taking what Douglas is giving, if the tense lines in his body says anything. The stony silence, too, has become rather off putting. And that, when Douglas is as naked mentally as he is physically, is something that he couldn't take anymore.

It doesn’t stop him from trying, but honestly, when he runs up against brick wall after brick wall, even Douglas has his limits. Martin himself never talks about it, despite the hints that Douglas drops , quick to reassure him that everything is 'fine', and 'wonderful', and that 'he couldn't ask for anything more'. On the same note, he never declines Douglas’s advances upon him.  Douglas is sick of pretending, feeling much too weary.

Martin, has probably picked up on his distress by now, and is as usual, pretending that everything is normal. Once or twice, he starts to look concerned, but it’s nothing a few choice words from Douglas can’t fix. They get up, they made breakfast, and they go to work. They fly a plane, land it, stay at a hotel and fly back home again all week. If Douglas is slightly more quiet than usual, no one says anything.  To be honest, Douglas doesn’t know how to start fixing this gap between them, when he’s just an unwanted thing long grown out of its prime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next bit is also not much better just so we have an understanding.


	3. Life pisses on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta'ed by Linguini! Any remaining mistakes are completely mine.
> 
> Let's just enjoy the acidic ride. Still unbetaed, and anything with /this/ is still italics. Sorry about that.

It's another quiet day, another day at home after work, with only the bland meaningless sounds coming from the television and his thoughts to keep him company.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of him brooding, of him not talking to Martin unless absolutely necessary, the two of them skirting around each other once more, hardly seeing each other unless at work locked in a small cockpit up in the air.  Douglas has taken to eating out alone instead of waiting for Martin to finish up his paperwork and going home to cook together.  Then, he just walks aimlessly, winding up in the park and only returning home after dark when Martin is already asleep. Martin stays up waiting for the first week, full of questions and worries, but when they’re callously brushed off, all Douglas comes back to is a dark bedroom filled with the endless ticking of a clock and a quietly, peacefully sleeping form.  Martin gives up on waiting for his lover in the second week,

If Martin still sees them both as lovers.

Granted, the question has been on the tip of Douglas’s tongue for the past three days, each time painfully swallowed down whenever Martin looks at him with those brilliant eyes of his.  He wonders when exactly it was that he fell so hard that he hadn't even realized it himself.

Sometimes, he wonders if Martin is seeing anyone behind his back.  Others, he wonders if Martin is just putting up with him the way Helena did. He doesn’t know which would hurt more: Martin staying without loving him, or Martin up and leaving him. Sometimes, in a masochistic fit, his mind comes up with theories on who Martin would be dating. Someone fitter, someone younger, and with a better prospect of the future than an old man with a starting potbelly, he supposes. Would it be someone he knows? Someone that he’s friends with, someone he works with? Martin has never been a particularly socializing creature, and the only places he might be able to find someone else would be-

Douglas stops his thoughts there brutally, sitting up to switch off the television and tossing the remote aside, the control bouncing off the sofa and landing with a loud, sudden sound on the floor.

Seconds, then minutes tick by of Douglas staring at the black screen of the television before the jangle of door keys startles him from his thoughts.  He quickly straightens, busying himself with the cushions on the sofa in a brief panic before abandoning them altogether.

Footsteps, and then another dull jangle as the keys are set down, and then a surprised sound from behind him.

"Douglas, why are you sitting in the dark?" Martin asks, walking into Douglas' periphery, relief lacing through his voice. "I didn't see you there--gave me quite the fright."

For a moment, silence stretches between them, interrupted only by the ticking of the clock. "Just... thinking," Douglas says into the darkness, wearily, when the silence becomes too much to bear.

Martin shifts, muttering a quiet 'oh', before walking over to Douglas, bending down to retrieve the remote control from where it’s fallen on the floor and placing it back to where they always keep it. Douglas watches him, there in his captain's uniform, hat and dark jacket neatly tucked under one arm, flight bag over one shoulder. He can faintly smell the airport on him, and he nods when Martin mumbles something uncertainly about putting his flight bag in their room.

Two weeks, and they're back to two strangers living under a common roof again.

Martin emerges later, freshly showered by the looks of his damp hair, and in a change of clothes.  He hovers almost nervously beside Douglas. "Have you had dinner yet?" he asks, and Douglas, though he can't see because he is standing in the shadows, knows that Martin is chewing on his lip because he is using _that_ tone of voice. "I can... cook something, if you're hungry." At Douglas' rumble that doesn’t particularly mean anything, Martin drifts into the kitchen, flicking on the lights and throwing a doorway of warm yellow light into the sitting room.

Douglas sits in the dark, listening to the sound of pots and pans clattering from inside the kitchen as Martin moves about, checking the fridge for food.  He watches his lover’s back working in his kitchen, hears the sound of water running, and the sharp pop of gas as Martin lights the stove, and sets the pan on it.

The curls on Martin's head seem redder than before, and the ambient light isn't kind to his freckles at all.  The young man putters around, occasionally spinning in circles looking for something even though he should have everything in the kitchen memorized by now. He's wearing one his old t-shirts again, although Douglas had threatened to burn them all.  Martin had protested that they were comfortable and still wearable, the fabric worn thin and shapeless from the many wash cycles they had already gone through.  There is a pair of loose cotton trousers that almost swallow up his feet, leaving his toes peeking out. It seems apt, somehow, Martin in the bright, warm kitchen, in all his youth and potential and bright tomorrows, and Douglas in the dark, silent, living room, all on his own, the cold creeping around him and seeping into his bones, wasting away to be dust in the light of tomorrow.  Their difference in age is made impossibly larger somehow, a distance so wide he can’t even think of crossing it.

They are drifting, and Douglas is the only one who was lost.

Martin is busying himself with raw chicken when Douglas joins him, picking up the vegetables by his elbow. "What are you making?" he asks, eyeing the chicken, and then the vegetables.

"Uh, pasta, with parmesan chicken," Martin says. "Uh, are you?"

Douglas sets down the chopping board and picks up his knife. "Sliced or diced?" he asks, taking the vegetables over to the sink for a rinse.

"You don't mind pasta, do you? I mean, diced, or chopped, really, it doesn't matter. I can make a quick soup if you want, it’s kind of chilly tonight, and I thought something hot to keep warm would be nice. Always had pasta on these kind of... nights... " Martin trails off when he realizes that he’s rambling, and returns to coating the chicken with parmesan.

The two of them work in silence, with Martin baking the chicken, and then boiling the pasta.  He gives Douglas the tomatoes to dice for the soup, darting him quick, nervous glances at the way Douglas is treating the vegetables. He’s fairly certain he said chopped, or diced, not murdered in the most vicious way possible, which seems to be what Douglas is doing.

As he cooks, Martin considers his lover.  Lately, Douglas has been unapproachable, often in a gruff mood, refusing to speak more than a few words at a time Martin has left him alone with it, knowing that whatever he says isn’t going to help.  Douglas will eventually come out of it in his own good time. But Douglas never responds to anything Martin says anymore, and eventually Martin stops trying, figuring that Douglas has stumbled along into one of those crises that people get when they reach a certain age.  He only hopes that Douglas will snap out of it soon, as there is only so much that he could do.  Douglas has his pride, and would hate to be hovered and clucked over, least of all by someone as young as him.

Sometimes, Martin just wishes that Douglas wouldn't be as stubborn, and would simply let him help.  However, he merely stays by his side, waiting for Douglas to come out of it, or for Douglas to need him, wishing that he could do something more.

The kitchen is soon filled with the familiar smell of cooking, and Douglas hovers in the background a little menacingly as Martin makes the soup, carefully not burning anything or scratching any working surfaces, treating the pans with extra care and washing everything after.

"I'll set the table," Douglas finally says, and leaves with the cutlery and two glasses.

Martin sighs softly and looks mournfully into the pot of tomato soup as he stirs in the sour cream. He really doesn't like Douglas like this.


	4. Last chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas attempts to fix things spectacularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the lovely Linguini.
> 
> Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I'M SORRY I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE SEX OKAY

Dinner is a quiet affair. They leave the television off, the quiet house filled with the sounds of softly clinking cutlery, and the smell of home-cooked food, the cold held at bay by a circle of wide soft light over the dining table. Martin doesn’t speak, uneasily concentrating on twirling strands of creamy pasta onto his fork. Douglas alternately watching him and the condensation on his glass of water, watching the slow trickle of water droplets down the side to form a ring of moisture on the table. The food is passable, delicious even, though Douglas barely tastes it. He spends the meal chewing and swallowing mechanically, chasing everything down with a gulp of water.

When the plates are finally empty, he watches Martin scrape at the sides of his bowl of tomato soup with his spoon, the awkwardness almost palpable. Douglas stands up to take the plates to the kitchen, setting them down in the sink with a loud clunk, rolling his sleeves up to wash the dishes, afraid that once he stops moving, his mind will start seething with conspiracy theories again.

Scrubbing plates clean, it reminds him of years long past, when there was a much younger him, and whichever wife it was at the time working together in the kitchen. Of mornings together, waking the coffee machine and sharing kisses over the stove that sometimes turned into something more. Cooking together, and dusting flour on each other to pealing laughter. He still recalls the one time they talked about children, him and Helena, and having a small family that never got around to happening. And as the love cooled, so did the kitchen empty, until it was just him and a take out carton, eating alone on the couch before the TV.

And now, now there’s Martin, the redhead who was at best a bumbling cook when he first arrived. He’s shaped up nicely over the course of time, despite numerous failed attempts. They don't kiss each other in the morning, not like that, when the coffee machines rumbles to life. Instead of the usual morning kisses and light bantering, Douglas is treated to a review of the day's job, and a thorough run through of their flight route, a hasty breakfast, and then being hustled out the door. 

Always another job in another country in trusty old Gertie--nights in a crappy hotel, spending time together on dirty bed sheets in a cramped little room, leaning on each other and whiling the time away. There are no more apple juices in bars, no more flirtatious smiles at anyone that passes his fancy. And then back home again, stumbling into bed and falling straight asleep with or without a shower beforehand. On off days, they don't go anywhere special, except for the shops to stock up on their supplies, carrying rolls of toilet paper back in the car.

He doesn't realize that he’s paused in the washing, obediently stepping aside when Martin gently nudges him with a concerned look. He lets Martin take over smoothly, standing there with his hands still wet, watching Martin scrubbing them briskly with the sponge, the faint scent of lemon detergent in the air, the soft chink of clean plates being set aside.

"Are you alright, Douglas?" Martin asks, so softly that he almost misses it, head bowed slightly as he rinses the detergent off another plate. "You can say so, I can... I can listen. You don't have to solve everything on your own. I- I know I'm not much help, but... but I can try, I mean, so... "

He stops when Douglas presses up behind him, slipping arms around his waist, leaving wet handprints on his shirt. He feels the warmth and weight against his back, and sets aside the last clean plate to dry. The kitchen is eerily silent without the running water from the tap. "Douglas?" 

"Come to bed with me," Douglas murmurs, lips against Martin's neck, breath tickling the curls at the nape of his neck, gently nuzzling.

Martin agrees.

\---

The bedroom is dark, the only light source the faint glow of streetlamp reaching into their room from between the curtains. That's alright. It’s better that Martin doesn't see.

The rustle of clothes disturbs the still air, quiet breathing as piece after piece of clothing is slowly removed and slips to the floor in a crumpled heap. Douglas keeps his movements slow, reverent, kissing every inch of pale freckled skin that is revealed to him. Martin stands still before him, before he’s gently guided to bed, a soft whisper of sheets against skin. If this is the last time that he’ll be able to do this before Martin shuns his touch the way Helena did, turning her back on his approaches, enduring them with a barely hidden grimace, then he can only do it sincerely.

Martin lies back on the pillows, not particularly gracefully, or seductively, or even coy, sprawled out over the sheets. His features are softly lit, throwing light onto his freckles, the bridge of his nose, the colour of his eyes receding into shadows, as he watches Douglas. He allows Douglas to gently kiss his lips, and to run a hand slowly down the planes of his body, fingertips brushing the edge of Douglas' sleeve, almost questioningly. But he doesn't speak.

It is a quiet ritual that Douglas does, worshipping every inch of Martin's body, seeking out the spots that Martin seems to like. He watches his face, his expression, committing each detail, each flaw and feature to his memory. He pleasures his young lover, mapping him once, and once again, lingering and lavishing attention over each erogenous spot, the snap of the lubricant’s cap in the silent room almost thunder before he finally slips a finger inside Martin.

Martin only ever watches, eyes piercing and unreadable, hands by his side where Douglas puts them whenever they start to wander, breath hitching occasionally--allowing Douglas to direct him. Sometimes he closes his eyes. Douglas always waits till he opens them again.

Eventually, when Martin is relaxed enough for Douglas, he reaches up to shed his clothes, pushing the garments off the bed to join the rest, not looking at Martin once, just wanting to be done with the chore of stripping, to move on before Martin notices his aging and flaws. He’s hard, as expected--they both are. He moves to cover Martin's body with his own, a hand wrapping around his cock, slick with fluids, stroking slowly. He moves to kiss him, and--

And Martin has already turned his head away into the pillows.

Douglas pauses, his heart aching, and moves instead to kiss his collarbone, spreading Martin's legs wider and tucking a pillow beneath his hips.

How does it feel, he wonders, to be under a man so many years older than you, to be penetrated by an old, portly man who works under you? Is it enough to stave off the loneliness and the coldness, to endure this to ease the ache of a heart starved for company?

When he pushes in, feeling the stretch and resistance, he watches Martin shudder, tensing all over, eyes opening briefly before closing tightly again, hands gripping into the sheets. 

Douglas rocks his hips gently, allowing Martin to adjust before sliding out and pushing back in, feeling rather than hearing Martin's silent gasp from underneath. He swallows his 'You're beautiful like this', and his 'I love you', and instead hopes that his touches convey it silently, a secret language from skin to skin.

"Martin," he whispers, brushing the side of his face, willing Martin to look at him, to say something, to give some indication that he loves him.

He feels the pleasure, the heat and the friction, but that is soon replaced by something else, something hollow and heavy and awful in the middle of his gut. He sees Martin spread beneath him, a light sheen of sweat on his skin, turned away from him and silent, always silent, and always unresponsive. He sees the closed eyes, the way he holds himself rigidly, as though his bobbing cock is an act against his will, and he sees the tension.

Douglas thinks of his wives, who one after the other turned him away in bed, only performing the act only because he wanted to, only stringing him along until something better came along and he--

He just can't.

He pulls out of Martin abruptly, choking back a sob, softened cock slipping out easily, his erection lost to the acid churning away in his guts. He represses a shudder as Martin blinks at the sudden loss of warmth, turning to watch Douglas with those stranger’s eyes.

"I'm sorry. I- I can't," Douglas chokes into the air, tears choking him, and flees from Martin's piercing gaze behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I NEED SEX EDUCATION NOW.


	5. Let's play adults

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Douglas attempt to be adults.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely linguini, and any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> I guess my idea of crack is different from you.

Martin catches him two steps out of the bedroom with a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks with just a mere touch. Douglas doesn't turn around, fighting to keep his emotions from boiling over, from lashing out at Martin who deserves so much more, hands clenching into fists by his side.  He starts when something light flutters and settles about his shoulders, before he realizes that Martin has draped a sheet over him, and chokes back a sob once again.

 

Such kindness from someone doesn’t even love him.

 

Martin guides him to the sitting room, pointedly away from the bedroom, making him sit down on their sofa before he leaves, returning with his crumpled shirt on, legs bare and cock still half erect.

 

Douglas hears water and then the sound of a kettle being put on as Martin moves in the kitchen, and wraps the sheet tighter around himself. It barely helps; it smells too much like Martin. He dashes his tears away angrily with the back of his hand, as Martin steps out a while later with two mugs of steaming hot tea, setting one in front of Douglas, and cradling the other with both hands as he settles in the chair.

 

"We need to talk," Martin finally says into the silence between them.

 

Douglas stares into his mug, into the brown liquid and the swirling steam rising gently from it. There it is--the sentence that he's been waiting for all his life. The one that he's always heard on tv shows and the like, coming from Martin, who's never looked more serious in his life, in a loose shirt with his ass naked, hands wrapped around his own mug. It’s a mug they got in a Parisian markets, with the blessing of the seller when she found out that they were dating. He remembers her, a toothy thing with her shawl wrapped around hunched shoulders. "Young love," she had said.  She hadn’t offered a discount voluntarily, making Douglas bargain for it, and laughing when he won it, as expected.

 

"You don't love me, do you?" he asks into his mug—voice subdued and heart heavy.  He takes a sip of the tea; Martin seems to have loaded it with sugar.

 

There’s only silence from Martin, and stillness. "What makes you think so?" Martin asks finally, hooking one ankle around the other, looking oh so terribly young.

 

Douglas sips from his mug, hands trembling around it.  He has never wished for alcohol so much in his life. "I can tell," he finally says. "You're fine with us being together. Kissing, and hugging, and holding hands. All the things people do on dates together... you're fine. You like that. But anything more…anything more intimate and you... " He bows his head over his mug, hands clasping it as though in prayer. "You don't want it. You don't want _me_."

 

"But I do want you," Martin says, after a brief shocked silence on his part. "I've never - Douglas, don't tell me you're talking about the... the sex."

 

A most uncomfortable silence stretches between them, a confirmation from Douglas, and Martin gapes at him, an expression of shock painted on his face. Douglas doesn’t notice, mind whirling from his confession.

 

He’s gone ahead and said it. Now that it’s out in the open, they’ll have to face the consequences. Martin doesn't want him as a lover, and now what? Is he going to ask Douglas to leave, like the Mrs Richardsons one two and three? Douglas grips his mug tighter, trepidation morphing into sharp irritation, watching Martin squirm in his seat uncomfortably. _Go on, say it,_ his mind urges Martin. _Say you never wanted me. That you just wanted to not be lonely._

 

Or is it him who didn't want to be alone, that he was the one who is truly afraid of returning to a big and bloody silent house? Is he the one using Martin instead?

 

He doesn't know anymore.

 

"Look," Martin says, clearing his throat, looking extremely out of his depth. "Do you think that I don't love you because... because the sex isn't good? Because sex doesn't define a relationship, and I- I thought- " he stops to suck in a deep breath, looking pale in the dim lighting. "I thought we were doing fine... "

 

"You don't ever make a bloody sound, and you don't look at me," Douglas cuts in. "Does it- tell me, do I repulse you so much? That you won't look at me, and can't even pretend to even remotely enjoy it?"

 

Out in the open, it sounds terribly childish and petty, but it is much too late to take it back.  Douglas gathers whatever shreds of tattered pride he has left, clinging to them as though a drowning man. Martin sits there, eyes wide, two spots of colour in his cheeks, before he finally closes his mouth and slumps in his chair.

 

"Douglas," Martin finally says, an odd quaver in his voice. "Douglas, you need to understand... I... " He trails off, teeth biting into his lower lip, eyes averted, the very picture of guilty.

 

"What is there to understand?" Douglas snaps, wounded. "That you don't want to see how old I truly am, and don't want to see that you _are_ being fucked by an old man? Or maybe you have someone, someone you're seeing behind my back? Maybe somebody you fancy?" He barely believes what is coming out of his mouth, spitting words like barbed poison at the man recoiling opposite him.  Martin’s eyes are wide and he looks so very terrified.  Douglas distantly hears the hate seep into his words where it doesn’t belong, directed at the person it isn’t meant for and _god_ he hates himself _so much_.  But he can’t manage to stop.   "So what now, can't stand the sight of me? Going to join the ranks of 'I played Richardson and then I found better' as well-"

 

"Douglas!" Martin shouts, his face red, stopping Douglas short. "I live in an attic!"

 

"Don't you dare change the topic," Douglas grinds out from between his teeth, the bed sheet slipping off his shoulder.  He suddenly feels _so terribly out of control-_

 

"A student house!"

 

"And how is that relevant- "

 

"A house shared with people!"

 

"Martin, Martin, _you_ listen here- "

 

"With students!" Martin sounds increasingly shrill, his face turning redder. "With people younger than I am! And sound travels downwards and I live in the attic! On _top_ of _everyone else_."

 

Oh. _Oh_.

 

There’s an embarrassing silence after that outburst, the only sound Martin's heavy breathing as he shifts, awkwardly, his face red and body angled away from Douglas.

 

"I do love you," Martin says, his voice terribly soft and hurt. "I do. With... with all my heart, and, and you're more important than anything else, and... and if something is wrong, I, I think we should... I think we should be able to, to trust each other, and to... talk about it." He shudders, and Douglas is suddenly afraid that Martin is crying. "And, about _that_ , I'm, I can't, its already a habit. Ten years in the making, and I didn't think it would affect you so much, and I thought you knew... "

 

Douglas winces as Martin sniffles, the other man rubbing a hand furiously over his face, trying his best to not cry, their tea long gone cold,.  He has never wished for a hole to open up and swallow him more in his life. He swallows, his anger draining away, leaving a tightness in his belly.  It’s humiliation, at himself more than anything else. "I'm sorry," he finally offers to the silence and Martin's defensive form. "If you... if you want to leave me... " And if Martin ever wanted to leave him, then he more than deserves it now, doesn't he? To have doubted him, and hurt him, and not trusted him--Martin certainly deserves better. Perhaps he just wasn't cut for this, and it’s fate's way of telling him that none of his long-term relationships are ever going to work out because he's _Douglas Richardson,_ bound to be alone forever, cradling his secrets to himself, and returning to an empty house...

 

"You're an idiot," Martin says suddenly, rubbing at his eyes, and sniffling again, setting his mug aside. "You always keep your problems to yourself, and look where it got us now. And to think that you stewed over all of that just because I won't make a bloody noise or look at you because if I do I would start babbling and it will spoil everything and I don't want to during _sex_."

 

Douglas feels a shift in the mood, and heat floods his cheeks, but remains silent.  It’s his turn to be terribly uncomfortable before his lover. And if Martin wants to yell at him, he deserves that too, doesn't he?

 

"I love you, if you still don't get that, and I don't give a _fuck_ how old you are, how flabby, how old, or how many _fucking_ white hairs you've got on your head," Martin spits, and Douglas twitches at the way Martin spits out vulgarities.  The last thing _his_ Martin would say is _that_ but it’s just so terribly filthy- "I don't care if you look like a prune after a bath, and I don't give a fuck if you always- hell, being wrinkly and _old_ and slightly plump is the _least_ of your problems. Shall I count the way you're nuts about the state of your kitchen, and the way you still always taunt me at work, and undermine my authority in front of MJN's clients? Not to mention that you always leave your work _all over my fucking desk_ and mess it up when I've just tidied it, or when you're always in my damn way when I'm cleaning the house and only move a finger to _pinch my fucking butt_ instead of _helping_ when I so nicely ask and your insane obsession with salads on Sundays and I _hate_ salad and that crap about colour-coded _towels_ which thankfully I've tossed them all out now? And," Martin pauses to suck in a deep breath. "And there is so much more to name, and above all that, I am still _fucking_ smitten with you for god-knows-why, and instead of thinking your hair is _ridiculous_ its adorable, and when you laugh, I just turn into mush, and your fucking _tricks_... Even now, I should be angry at you, but I can't, I just can't... "

 

Martin curls up on his chair, bringing his knees up and resting his head on them, arms wrapped tightly around himself.  Douglas sits in an awkward silence, unsure of what to say, feeling that anything would be wrong and Martin will _hate_ him after all.  He wishes that he hadn't been so mistrusting.  Age must truly be getting to him if he had indeed spent the last two weeks constructing scenario after scenario of Martin leaving and cheating on him when nothing of the sort was happening.

 

"I thought you were going to leave me," Martin whispers into his knees, looking terribly vulnerable.  A distant part of Douglas’s brain inappropriately notices that Martin still isn't wearing pants and he’s getting a rather good view.

 

"I'm sorry for ever... for doubting you," Douglas says quietly, contrite, moving to kneel down in front of Martin.  He wants to touch him but doesn’t dare, unsure of his welcome. "I'm really... for what I've said... "

 

"The great Douglas Richardson, at a loss for words," Martin sniffles. "Are we done now?"

 

Douglas sits back on his heels, and nods, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip in an uncustomary nervous gesture. "Yes. I'm- "

 

"I'm going to bed," Martin cuts in, uncurling from his chair, eyes red and puffy, standing up and walking away.

 

Douglas watches Martin walk away, disappearing back down into their bedroom, and shifts, gathering the mugs and setting them into the kitchen sink before retiring to the couch. There are cushions, and he's probably in for a rough night, but at least he has his sheets that might just keep him warm, and--

 

"Douglas, what are you doing?" Martin appears once more, frowning at him, looking more like a puffy toad than anything else. "Are you sleeping on the couch?"

 

"I wasn't sure if you're going to welcome me back into... your bed... " Douglas says, switching 'our' for 'your' at the last second, about to lie down on his hastily shuffled cushions.

 

"Is this another bout of your stupidity? Because there is only so much I can put up with and I want to sleep, you sod," Martin squints at him. "Come to bed, Richardson. I don't have all night, and you better be glad that tomorrow is a non-flying day for the both of us."

 

At that, Douglas can only meekly gather his sheets and shuffle over to Martin, who immediately seizes his hand, and tugs him back into the bedroom, urging him into bed before flopping down gracelessly onto it beside him.  He turns so that he’s on his side facing Douglas, who watches him, silently, more than chastised.

 

This time, the silence between them isn't cold, or vast, or lonely.  There’s the faint sounds of the occasional car on the street driving by filtering in with the barking of dogs somewhere else, and Douglas reaches out to clasp Martin's hand in his own, thumb brushing over calloused fingers, the air filled with soft breathing.

 

Martin shifts around for a better position, then fluffs his pillow before settling down again. "Arthur is right, you are a clot," he murmurs fondly, lips tilted in an exasperated smile. "An old, annoying, insecure clot, but one that I love regardless. I'm never going to leave you, unless you want me out of your life, which I hope is never."

 

"That isn't going to happen," Douglas says, and means it.

 

"I do hope so, and the next time something is bothering you, please tell me," Martin says, sounding stern. "I'm- I'm not going to laugh, or I might, but please don't deal with everything alone anymore. You don't have to."

 

Douglas watches Martin fall asleep within the next twenty seconds, and presses a kiss to his forehead, brushing the red curls back from his face.  He turns over, silent apologies in his mind before settling back down, head pillowed on one arm, waiting for a sleepless night.  He tries to come up with ideas to make it up to Martin, even though his young lover didn't ask for anything and refuses to listen to his apologies.

 

With Martin's hand in his, he watches the shadows and lights on his ceiling, and begins to plan.  Now that he knows the problem, it’s simply logical to do something about it the Richardson way.  After he’s laid Martin's own fears to rest, that is.


	6. Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are fine again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by the lovely Linguini17.
> 
> Special thanks to both Linguini and Tiwtin for helping me through with the SOP part! I'm sure I still got something wrong, so I'm sorry about that, but thank you for guiding me through and teaching me. I learned quite a bit about runways from that.
> 
> Information is taken off a Learjet handbook ( link graciously given to me by Tiwtin ).
> 
> I'M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING?!?!
> 
> \--- 
> 
> Special Note to all readers:
> 
> As I've mentioned before, there is going to be a bonus chapter ( for those of you following me on tumblr ), but this story ends here. Stop reading here if you want to keep your happy feelings. 
> 
> Though of course, if you lack self-restraint, you may move on to the last bit.
> 
> Officially, the story ends here.

It is another awkward week before things return to something resembling normalcy. Martin is somewhat amused by Douglas' attempts to apologize, although he really doesn't mind.  In truth, he doesn't need anything other than Douglas loving him and him alone, but why put a stop to it when he’s going out of his way to do lovely things for Captain Crieff?

 

Finally, when Douglas tries to offer to buy a puppy for Martin, who has always wanted one, he takes Douglas' face in his hands and kisses him, shaking his head. "You don't have to do all this for me," he says. "I know you're allergic to animals, I don't need you to do all this. I appreciate it, but I only need you."

 

Douglas kisses him rather passionately at that, and they finally lay a proper rest to the previous week's problems. He convinces Martin to buy a few possessions of his own so that he stops being a quiet ghost in the corner in his house. There had been discussions of re-painting the rooms, so that Martin could leave his own touch in their house, but in the end, it was the garden that Martin wanted to work with, forcing Douglas to labour beside him with a shovel and rake.  Douglas ended up grimy and dirty from the soil and earthworms but ultimately happy.

 

Douglas too, proves, in his own way that he wanted to keep Martin around as much as Martin did him. They, stick to kissing and the cuddling, though perhaps a bit more than usual to make up for the two weeks that Douglas had neglected Martin.  The end result is a Martin more than content and secure in their relationship.

 

He misses the sex, though, and now that he knows that Douglas has an issue with his habitual silence during the act, he isn't sure what to do about it.  He’s afraid to set Douglas off again, and yet too embarrassed to be anything but silent.

 

As usual, Douglas has the answer, in the form of a small vibrator that he produces from somewhere.

 

"Are you- did you," Martin colours where’s he’s lying half-dressed on the bed, watching the small toy buzz around in Douglas' hand.  Douglas’s other is playing with the different settings. "When?"

 

"Just something I happened to pick up in my shopping endeavors," Douglas says, turning the device off with a satisfied smile. "So, where were we?"

 

It turns out that Martin does enjoy the toy, judging by the state of his straining cock and the way he writhes on the mattress, rubbing against the sheets desperately.  Disappointingly, he still holds in any and all sound behind tightly gritted teeth and clenched fists, which is rather against the whole idea of the exercise. Eventually, Douglas coaxes Martin to suck on his fingers, which Martin does with enthusiasm, hands now wrapped around Douglas’s hand, keeping it there as he slurps at the digits, hips rocking desperately and a whine escaping from his throat that is terribly delicious and needy.  Until Douglas increases the setting and Martin accidentally bites hard into his fingers—a quite embarrassing end to the evening.

 

Three bandages applied with spluttering apologies and one very satisfying blow job later, the two of them are curled up with each other on the bed.  Douglas admits that it wasn't one of his better ideas, though it _did_ have the unexpected benefit that he’s found out Martin is delightfully sensitive to certain stimuli, something he can use to his advantage.

 

"Sorry about that," Martin murmurs, and presses his lips to Douglas' bandaged fingers, looking up in that way of his that causes another bout of tumbling on the sheets, a long period of no speaking, and stained bed sheets.

 

It takes a while, but with Douglas’s usual luck, the answer drops into his lap.  One day, he finds Martin sitting at the table, surrounded by his beloved stacks of flight manuals and copies of Standard Operating Procedures, clutching them in one hand, a mug of coffee grown cold by his elbow, frowning in concentration as he tries his best to devote them to memory.

 

It isn’t that hard to take it from there, then.

 

\---

 

"Douglas, will you test me on this?" Martin requests when he spots him, thrusting the dreaded book at him. "I'm not sure if I’ve got it all down.  I _think_ I did but I always leave something out."

 

Douglas takes the book and flips through it nonchalantly. Granted, he expected to be asked of this earlier, but he isn't about to complain, really. He snaps it shut. "Martin, you'll be fine. With the way you've been at it for the past three days, I won't be surprised if you can recite it backwards," he says placatingly.

 

"No, Douglas, you don't understand," Martin groans, rubbing at his face. "I always- something always happens in a test, or exam, and I'm always bound to forget something, and then I'm going to _fail_ and I can't be a pilot anymore- "

 

"I'm pretty sure that won't happen," Douglas says, setting the book down. "If I can breeze through it, so can you."

 

"I'm not you, Douglas," a note of desperation enters his voice, staring at the stack of handbooks hollowly. "I can't just scrape by without trying."

 

Douglas gently wraps his hands around Martin's wrists, bringing his hands away from his face, and leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. "So how about I propose an idea that will ensure you will remember every single line in that bloody manual?" he purrs into Martin's ear.

 

“An idea” apparently includes having Martin naked and reclining on their bed, flushing pink and protesting.

 

"Douglas! This isn't going to work!" he complains. "How is _sex_ going to help me in my retesting?"

 

"Let me propose a game," Douglas smoothly cuts in, running hands down Martin's side. "I'll test you on your SOP, and you'll recite what you remember pertaining to the question, and try not to be distracted. I'm sure that if you can do this, you can well take on any exam under any circumstances."

 

"Douglas- " Martin protests, except that Douglas has wrapped his fingers around his cock, and was giving it firm, slow strokes, lips on the side of his neck.

 

"Where is CDG?" Douglas murmurs, brushing his lips over Martin's pulse point, tongue flicking out briefly to taste his skin.

 

There are two seconds of silence, in which Douglas was afraid that his plan might have failed after all, until Martin draws in a shuddering breath, head falling back on the pillows. "Charles de Gaulle International Airport," he begins, in a perfect textbook voice. "Douglas, you can't be serious."

 

"NRT."

 

"Narita International Airport."

 

Douglas fires off questions, and listens to him, even as he kisses his way down Martin's body.  He nips at certain area, impressed at Martin's quick responses, a hand stroking along Martin's thigh. Honestly, Douglas only knows the major airports, and none of the others--Google is around for a reason, and so are smartphones.

 

"ARX... I've got this, I know I do... As... Asbury... Asbury?" Martin goes on, obviously panting slightly now, his cock fully erect under Douglas' careful ministrations. "I know this, I know this one we went there once, I think... Asbury PaaaARK!"

 

The sentence ends in a whine, and he cries out, arching up into Douglas' mouth, now currently around his cock and all heat and tongue, and shudders minutely as Douglas pulls off him. "None of that," Douglas admonishes. "ARN. Go on."

 

Martin bites his lip, squeezing eyes closed briefly, drawing in a deep breath, and continues answering Douglas' steady stream of questions, hips rocking towards him each time Douglas pauses to give him a question. "Stockholm Arlanda Airport. Douglas, why are you asking me this? These aren’t even questions on the test."

 

"Oh, just brushing up on your general knowledge," Douglas says nonchalantly, hand cupping Martin's balls, and then leaning down to give them a slow lick, hearing Martin's sharp inhale and feeling the tensing of his muscles. "You never know when it may come in useful. Always good to be prepared, isn't it, _captain_?"

 

Martin opens his mouth to say something, but it changes into a whine as Douglas does it again, licking a stripe up his balls to his cock, tasting bitterness on his tongue. To be honest, Douglas is just tossing letters together, not expecting them to be real airports. If all else fails, he can always tell Martin it was a trick question. With any luck, Martin would never notice.

 

"Active runways in major airports are based on?"

 

"W-weather conditions, such as visibility, a-and ceiling," Martin recites, in a quavering voice, chest heaving as Douglas works over his cock with his tongue once again, fingers teasing at a nipple. "As- as well as _oh god Douglas_ runway conditions, such as wet or dry, efficiency, t-traffic demand- " Martin's voice turns into a whine, and he shudders, hand fisting into Douglas' hair. "And- and the time of day. Please, can we n-not do this?" Martin whimpers when Douglas looks up, a wicked grin on his lips.

 

"I think you're doing rather well, Captain," Douglas says, kissing Martin, who groans at the bitter taste in his mouth, cheeks rather red from the embarrassment of hearing his own voice during sex.

 

"It's embarrassing," Martin says, glancing away, at which point Douglas pinches the inside of his thigh, causing a squeal.

 

"I rather find it arousing," Douglas murmurs. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Give me an instance of when an aircraft would need a longer runway?"

 

"An aircraft would require a l-longer runway at a higher altitude because... because... " A moan escapes Martin, eliciting a chuckle from Douglas, who has just slipped a lubricated finger into him, and is slowly moving it in and out of him. "Because... " Martin gasps brokenly, all too aware of the way his voice sounds, a far cry from proper--bleeding into lewd with high notes whenever Douglas does something with his hands or mouth.  Not to mention his _tongue_.

 

"Because?" Douglas prompts, pushing in another finger, taking his time to stretch Martin, pausing now and then for more lube. "Don't rush your answer, Martin. Take your time."

 

"Because- of- it needs a longer runway because of decreased density of air at higher altitudes, which reduces lift and engine power, therefore requiring a higher take-off and landing speed!" Martin says in a sudden rush, spreading his legs for Douglas, a hand moving to touch himself, roaming across his body, shuddering. "Douglas, can we please _not_?"

 

"No? I never pinned you for the type to give up, Captain Crieff," Douglas says conversationally, stretching Martin now with three fingers. "Though you have to remember that you're the one who asked for my help first."

 

"I can't- " Martin gasped, and shuddered violently. "I can't think when you have your fingers up my arse."

 

"Au contraire, I think you can. Or would you prefer if I removed them?" Douglas quirks a brow, and does exactly that, drawing a protest from Martin.

 

"Don't you dare!" Martin cries, a hand already on himself, stroking. Douglas drinks in the sight of Martin in a wanton state of debauchery, and has never been more thankful for the existence of Martin's obsessive need to memorize everything on paper that is handed to him.  He watches his flushed pale skin, and the trembling need just beneath his skin. Honestly, Martin isn’t exactly beautiful, by his standards, and he’s certainly not graceful, gawky and unsure of where to put his limbs, but Douglas has never seen anything more breathtaking in his life.

 

"Impatience is a dangerous mindset for a pilot can get himself into," Douglas remarks, watching as Martin buries three of his own fingers into his glistening hole, failing to suppress a guttural moan as the Martin proceeds to fuck himself on them.

 

"I can hardly - ah - bring myself to care in a situation when I am not in a plane," Martin gasps, shuddering, working his fingers furiously.

 

"No worry about your re-test at all?" Douglas smirks, pulling Martin's hand away and earning soft whine from beneath. "Give me the checklist for a mid-flight engine restart."

 

"Checklist for mid-flight engine restart... mid-flight engine restart... " Martin mumbles absently as Douglas pushes his legs wider apart and positions himself between them. "Relight envelope if conditions permit- " he begins, only to inhale sharply as Douglas pushes himself in, slowly, memorized checklist turning into a soft whimper as he feels himself being penetrated, spread open.

 

"Relight envelope if conditions permit?" Douglas prompts him after a lengthy silence from Martin, pausing all movements. "Surely you are better prepared."

 

"Douglas do shut up," was the breathless reply that he got instead. "And please just _move_. Thrust lever to cut off and wait ten seconds. Proceed to check available fuel supply from w-wing tank- " Martin has his eyes screwed shut and is trembling, legs wrapped loosely around Douglas' waist. "Push in engine- Oh for God sake Douglas will you just _move_?" He finally snaps, a note of needy frustration in his voice, his face entirely red.

 

"Just waiting for the Captain's orders," Douglas groans and finally moves, setting a slow, rhythmic pace for Martin to follow, even as Martin rises to meet his thrusts, voice still unsteadily reciting what was left of his checklist, determined to not be distracted. His sentences grow increasingly jumbled and broken, until all he can do was hold on to Douglas with a soft keen, occasionally gasping when he can think no more, eyes wide and not once looking away from Douglas' own.

 

And if he did sink his teeth rather viciously into Douglas' shoulder, well, that certainly can't be helped.

 

When the two of them are finally spent, they spend a while lying in each other's loose embrace, Douglas fondly petting Martin's hair, inwardly pleased that his plan has gone so well.  He congratulates himself on evaded yet another evening spent discussing checklists. Martin shifts in his arms, finally fixing him with a sleepy glare.

 

"I do hope you'll not pin our relationship on sex anymore," Martin says quietly. "Or I'll ban it altogether."

 

"No, I won't," Douglas agrees. "I'm sorry. I did think a little too much, didn't I?" he presses a light kiss to Martin's sweaty forehead. "I made quite the fool out of myself."

 

"Yes, you did," Martin says. "But you're my fool."

 

And watching Martin smile at him, his expression one of fond exasperation, Douglas finally allows himself to believe that, old dog that he might be, he might still have the chance to love, and to be loved back, and to finally, actually belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, stop here for the happy and official ending.
> 
> Bonus chapter is specially written in celebration of New Year and can be found in my livejournal here (http://orphantext.livejournal.com/14791.html). Please heed all the warnings.
> 
> Happy 2013 everyone!


End file.
